The rituals didn’t have to be completed in any specific order, but this was the way it was most often done.
And right then, in that moment, I felt the second binding fall into place. He was submitting himself to me. My heart hammered inside my chest in anticipation and willingness. I knew we had done this before, not just before I… died the last time, but before that. And before that. He was my heart and soul, my mind and blood. Had always been and always would be.
And then I felt it.
A soft shimmer in the air. A warmth, brushing my cheek like a breath. A glimmering veil—barely there, like sunlight caught in frost—unfolded around us.
Fraysa’s veil.
The goddess’s blessing.
I gasped, and Mallack looked up at me with wonder, his lips parted as the shimmer bathed us. His shoulders straightened. But he didn’t rise.
“You are mine,” he said again, quieter this time. “And I am yours. Not because of the rituals. Not because of fate. Becausewe choose it.Again and again.”
I dropped to my knees in front of him, cupping his face with both hands.
“I do choose you, and I always will,” I whispered. “Every time. In every life. Even if I forget again, even if I lose myself, I will always find you.”
His eyes closed briefly, as if he was absorbing the words like light into his skin.
The veil shimmered brighter. The air around us hummed with something too sacred to name.
He leaned forward and kissed me again, not in hunger this time, but in devotion. His lips moved, slow and reverent, like he was savoring every second. Like this was the first kiss, and maybe the last.
And when we finally pulled apart, still kneeling, still wrapped in each other, the only thing that existed was the truth between us: We were no longer two broken souls.
We were one.
My body hummed as Mallack solemnly rose from his knees, each movement a sacred vow. The glow of Fraysa’s veil lingered faintly in the air between us, like stardust reluctant to fade.
“I need you,” he breathed against my skin, his words a warm caress at my temple.
“I’m yours,” I whispered, feeling an ancient force stir within me, something primordial and profound, far deeper than mere desire, devotion, or fate.
I turned away from him with deliberate languor, my back to him, a silent invitation. Looking over my shoulder, I caught the exact moment his breath hitched as I began to disrobe, my blouse falling away like a shed skin. His eyes widened with realization, and a raw, hungry need etched itself onto his face.
This was my surrender, my ancient, sacred offering.
With nimble fingers, he opened the fastenings of his drawers, pushed out of his boots, and let it all fall to the ground, followed by his shredded shirt. Then his hands began a slow descent down my arms, tracing the curves of my body as if molding me from clay. I could feel his heat, solid and unyielding, a bastion of strength at my back. His fingers brushed against my hips, resting for a moment beneath my ribs as he stepped closer, his chest pressed against my spine, his breath felt warm on my neck. A possessive yet gentle hand moved to the base of my throat; his touch ignited sparks across my skin.
“You’re sure?” he rasped, his voice sounded ragged, filled with a symphony of restraint.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I assured him, pressing back into his embrace. “I remember enough to know I never was.”
A low growl rumbled in his throat and vibrated against my back. His hand tightened ever so slightly, anchoring me as I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the cool stone table near the bed. A ceremonial offering bowl lay forgotten, pushed aside in our fervor—Fraysa forgive us. Yet, I knew the gods would understand our primal dance.
When his other hand slipped around and dipped between my thighs, he found me slick and ready. A soft, almost reverent groan escaped him, as if he’d discovered a long-lost treasure, precious and rare.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice a gentle caress.
“I’m ready,” I breathed, the words falling from my lips like an invocation, fragile and absolute. The tension between us tightened, a living current that shimmered along my skin and through the space Mallack’s body occupied behind me. My pulse drummed in my ears as I poised there against the cold stone, one palm splayed for balance, the other clutching the edge in a white-knuckled grip. I heard the catch in his breath, the animal sound of want barely caged, and felt his presence—simmering, immense—gather itself in the eternity between heartbeats.
With a patience that was almost painful, he guided himself to my entrance, sheathing himself inch by exquisite inch. My body welcomed him, remembering his touch, offering no resistance, only eager acceptance. I could feel his length filling me, stretching me, grounding me in the present as warmth radiated through my core, threatening to consume me entirely.
His hand at my throat never tightened, but its weight—his claim—kept me tethered. My hands continued to grip the table’s edge, knuckles white, as I tilted my hips, offering myself to him completely.
The first thrust came slow and deep, drawing a primal moan from my lips, a sound ancient and unrestrained.
